Chapter 10 – Vera #2
The Crown riders spur forward. One draws alongside, reaching for the reins.
I rise, knife in hand, thrusting through the gap.
Steel bites flesh. The man screams, falling beneath hooves.
Another rider fires, the bullet ripping through canvas, grazing my arm.
Pain blooms hot, but I don’t stop. Rourke returns fire through the slats, his rifle cracking thunder in the night.
The second rider drops, his horse veering wild.
The last gives chase, close enough that I see the hate burning in his eyes.
Lucian jerks the vehicle hard right, wheels shrieking as we smash into a side lane.
The rider follows, but the narrow walls press close.
His horse stumbles, crashing against stone.
We barrel forward, hooves hammering, until the street widens and the smell of water rises thick.
The river.
Lucian reins the horses to a halt beside a crumbling dock. Water laps black and slow against rotting wood. Barges creak, shadows shifting on their decks. The city’s glow paints the current in streaks of red and gold.
Rourke spits. “We’ll never outrun them on land. Too many eyes. Too many boots.”
Lucian climbs down, scanning the dock. “Then we don’t run on land.” His gaze fixes on a barge tethered loosely, its cargo covered with tarps. “We run with the river.”
The idea chills me. The current is fast, the night unforgiving. But soldiers will swarm these streets within minutes. The choice is no choice at all.
We unload crates quickly, working in silence.
Each thud of wood on wood feels like a drumbeat counting down.
My wounded arm throbs, blood slick beneath torn cloth, but I do not falter.
When the last crate is stacked, Lucian severs the rope with his knife.
The barge drifts free, carried into the current.
We board just as shouts echo from the lane behind us. Lantern light flares, bouncing off rifles. Crown soldiers swarm the dock, too late to catch us. Bullets crack, water splashing high, but the current pulls us beyond their reach. Their voices fade, swallowed by the river’s endless rush.
I collapse against the tarps, chest heaving. Rourke slumps beside me, muttering a half-prayer, half-curse. Lucian stands at the prow, a shadow carved against the burning skyline. His knife glints once before he sheaths it.
Old Vienna burns, Declan still roars, and we are adrift on black water. But we are alive. And for tonight, that must be enough.
The barge drifts silently, the current tugging us farther from the city’s heart.
I sit with my back against a crate, pressing torn cloth to the wound on my arm.
The pain throbs steady, but it is not the worst of me.
The worst is the echo of Declan’s voice, still booming in my skull, twisting truth into chains.
Lucian remains at the prow, a statue of shadow, his eyes fixed on the burning skyline.
He hasn’t spoken since we cast off, though I see the tension coiled in every line of his body.
Rourke paces like a trapped hound, muttering about ambushes, river patrols, the noose tightening with every passing minute.
The river carries us past the poorer quarters first, clusters of shacks huddled against the banks, their windows glowing faint in the night.
Families gather outside, watching the sky where smoke plumes choke the stars.
Some point toward us, but none call out.
Fear binds their tongues as tightly as chains.
I clutch the satchel, what little remains of Marta’s work. The pages inside feel fragile, already frayed at the edges. Are they enough? Did the crowd believe what they saw? Did any of those scattered sheets survive the fire? I whisper Marta’s name like a prayer, though prayers feel hollow now.
Rourke’s mutters grow louder. “We’re floating right into their jaws. Crown boats patrol these waters. And when they spot us, we’ll be fish in a barrel.”
Lucian finally turns. His voice is low, even. “Then we strike before they net us.”
His calm unnerves me more than Rourke’s panic. Lucian speaks as though death is an old companion, waiting patiently at the edge of every plan. Perhaps it is.
The current quickens. Ahead, the river bends sharp. Lanterns bob in the dark, two Crown patrol boats tethered near a dock, soldiers lounging with rifles across their laps. Their laughter drifts across the water, careless, unaware.
Rourke stiffens. “See? Told you.”
Lucian scans the boats, eyes narrowing. “We can’t drift past. They’ll spot us.” He glances at me. “Options?”
My mind races. Fight, and we risk alerting the whole river. Flee, and we’ll be cut down. Unless,
“There,” I whisper, pointing to a cluster of abandoned warehouses on the far bank, their roofs sagging, their windows dark. “If we angle toward the reeds, the current might carry us close enough to slip behind them.”
Lucian considers, then nods. He seizes the pole and leans hard, guiding the barge toward shadow. The wood groans under the strain. Water slaps higher against the sides, spraying cold across my face. My wound burns as I cling to the crate, praying the reeds will shield us.
The patrol boats drift nearer. Lantern light brushes the tarps. My breath stalls. A soldier’s voice calls out, a question, half-drowsy. Another laughs, dismissing it. Their boat creaks as they turn lazily back toward the dock.
We slip behind the warehouses, swallowed by the dark.
Only when the lanterns vanish do I let myself breathe. My arms tremble, the satchel heavy against my ribs. Lucian lowers the pole, his jaw set. Rourke collapses to a crate, muttering relief and curses in the same breath.
The current slows here, eddies curling among the reeds. We drift in uneasy silence, the glow of the city fading behind us. Old Vienna is distant now, but its fire still lights the sky like a wound that will not close.
Lucian finally speaks, voice rough with smoke. “Declan still stands. But tonight, the mask slipped. The world saw.”
I clutch the satchel tighter, though doubt gnaws deep. “And if they believe his lies instead?”
His gaze cuts to me, sharp as a blade. “Then we make them believe ours.”
The words chill me. Not because they lack conviction, but because I hear what lies beneath them: war. Not in whispers, not in stolen shadows, but in fire that will spread until no one can look away.
Rourke breaks the silence, voice hoarse. “So, where to now? River doesn’t run forever. Neither do we.”
I lift my chin, staring at the dark horizon where the river winds into unknown lands. “Wherever the truth still has ears willing to hear it.”
Lucian turns back to the prow, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of burning Old Vienna. His silence says more than words ever could.
The barge drifts on, carrying us away from the city we scarred, toward battles yet to come. Smoke follows, thick and unyielding, a reminder that no matter how far we go, the Crown’s shadow stretches farther.